


His Exception

by CelestePhantasm



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Pure Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestePhantasm/pseuds/CelestePhantasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Reid is a genius in a multitude of things. Women…is not one of them. Anyone who knows him would be surprised to find that he’s been dating one for a long time…yet she never fails to make him speechless. And on a special date night, she’s made up her mind to give him the best night he’s had in a long, long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Exception

**Author's Note:**

> **_DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _Criminal Minds_ or any of its contents or characters. I don't own any of the writers, concepts, or _anything_ at all. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> I've been posting on Tumblr...a lot. And I sorta forgot about this place, because I've only posted like one thing here (before now) and...yeah. Whoops.
> 
> But, I'm here now, and I'll be posting more...though, at the moment, this is the only story I have for this particular category, but I have requests down the line for this on Tumblr.
> 
> That said, this was a request from a friend to help me kick off my Tumblr blog (which you can find in my profile here), and it is...pure smut, pretty much. Then again, who would protest some fun with Dr. Reid...?
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Spence is acting funny. Of course, I know why, but seeing him fidget through the walk in to the theater makes me smile. Any other man would be acting cocky and pressing too close...

But not my Spence.

Instead, no matter how long we've been together, he seems awed by me. Hotch doesn't let coworkers date...but I'm not directly his coworker. I'm a profiler from another team and Hotch had been forced to pull me to his team for one case.

One case was all it took.

Spence had nearly stuttered over his words the moment he saw me, and then had sputtered in German before he managed to give me his trademark, tiny wave, face flushed with color. Morgan had started laughing as soon as I was shut in Hotch's office.

He'd gone between stuttering around me to being uncharacteristically silent, and though I'd known from the start that he found me attractive, it had taken some time to suss out his personality behind his nerves.

He was sweet...and damaged.

So was I.

Therefore, it hadn't taken long; I'd taken the lead, knowing he'd never do it. I'd called him—he refused to text, or e-mail, at first—and had talked to him until his stuttering wasn't stuttering; it was babbling about the book he was reading and string theory and whatever just so happened to skitter across his big brain.

I'd let him.

I liked his soft voice and the way he dragged out his words, and the way that, after nearly fifteen straight minutes of speech, he'd asked if I'd fallen asleep on him. I loved that he seemed surprised that I was listening.

I wasn't as smart as he was. I had my things, of course; I had some specialties for Hotch to pull me for his case, but I wasn't sure anyone had the intelligence of my Spence.

The tipping point hit when I let him talk to me for two hours about classical literature—somehow, he'd gone from the profiling and analytical implications of _Dracula's_ “monsters” to _Pride and Prejudice_ and its impacts on the feminist movement from its release to now and he hadn't stopped, used to me just listening to him. It wasn't my thing. I loved stories—I'd become his official movie partner, no matter the language—but I wasn't a fan of the classics the way he was. He'd stopped for a little breath, and asked if I was okay, and he must've been able to tell; he was a profiler, and knew me well, too. I'd not been as attentive with my humming confirmations and had, admittedly, picked up a pencil to sketch something amid his rambling. I'd admitted my boredom with the classics, and he'd gone utterly silent.

But he didn't apologize.

He asked me why I hadn't stopped him.

My reply was simple—I liked him as much as I disliked classic literature.

He'd asked me if I wanted to meet up for coffee and I'd agreed without waiting for him to finish the question.

I've loved him since, even if it'd taken him longer to fall for me.

I'm not sure what made him realize he loved me. And maybe he didn't; maybe he would never admit it, because everyone he'd ever cared for wound up in danger. It was one thing for his teammates...but his mother—which he'd explained in the middle of the night as we sat playing chess, both sleepless from equally brutal cases—and anyone who hadn't signed on to the danger of his life...he never wanted to admit his feelings.

He'd go out of his way to protect someone he cared for.

And maybe I hadn't signed up for the danger of his life...but I'd signed up for mine, and I knew he was a liability. I knew he could be used against me, but, unlike my Spence, my head was not as strong as my heart. He worked through things until he could rationalize it and brush it away—and when he couldn't, that was when he'd accept that he felt it, that it was real.

Perhaps that's why I always went out of my way to impress him, to show him I wanted to be with him. I wanted to prove to him that this wasn't temporary.

So tonight, though he often insisted that he take me out, I'd forced him to accept that it was my turn. It's the anniversary of the first time we'd had coffee together, and I had told him to be ready for me to pick him up. I've dressed in my best; I'm taking him to dinner, and then a movie. A proper date night, boring to anyone else, but good for us; half of our dates were canceled by last-minute cases or kept by phone calls when we were in different states. That was only in the dead of night, when, though we should sleep and focus on our tasks, we were allowed a stolen moment.

Spencer didn't much like to stand out. He tended to wear more neutrally-colored clothes and stand at the back of the room, he liked to be overlooked.

I had no problem with that.

But I was out to make sure he had the best date night he'd had in three years.

Three years was an eternity in this job. This job stole our time, our sanity, our happiness...our very lives, and too often, emptiness and ache were our company. Spence and I had begun to turn to each other, though it was reluctant on his part; thanks to the pain he so often suffered, to the damage he felt he must repair on his own, he had come to find comfort in me, too.

We each had a drawer of clothes for each other; mine was fuller at his apartment than his was at mine, but I was far more willing to run to him when I needed. I had nightmares, and I knew he did, too. I'd called him, late one night, and he'd known right away, when I asked him if he was okay. He'd promised he was, but the nightmare was too real, and I'd begged him to let me come and see him.

I'd planned on leaving once I saw he was okay. He hadn't let me. He told me he'd sleep on his couch, but I hadn't let him do that, either; all long and limber, tall, but Spencer wasn't heavy. I had to be tough for my job and he'd gotten the full force of that on that night; I'd grabbed him and carried him to his bed and tossed him on it. He stared at me for an eternity, thinking, wondering, and I'd shaken my head to stop him from trying to say anything. I'd asked to share his bed and promised I wouldn't take up much room.

Morning had greeted me with his lanky form wrapped around me, limbs tangled and almost sore, for he'd clutched me to him like iron and his legs had nearly knotted with mine.

He never protested, even as it happened more often, and I found myself bathed in his warmth in more and more mornings.

Neither of us are ready to give up our own places yet, though. I think we both fear what will happen when we truly commit to this.

But tonight is important, and special. I'm not letting anything interrupt.

Dinner had gone without a hitch, other than Spencer's infrequent stares and mild blushes. It's been a while since he's stuttered around me, but dinner had brought it back; the dress I wore and the fact that I'd put spare time in to my appearance, that I'd tried to impress him, that I'd _dressed up_ for him had left him speechless on the car ride to the restaurant. I'm sure it's brought memories back, as it's not the first time I've gone out of my way to knock him speechless, but it's been too long.

The theater was playing a favorite of his, in its original format and language, and I'd found out ahead of time. I'd determined to take him and had made him promise he wouldn't go without me.

I think he might regret it, for I know his focus isn't on the film. As focused as he can be, as much as he can tune things out, I feel immensely pleased that he can't ignore me; I feel his glances, I feel his eyes wandering over me.

At last, halfway through the film, I press close to him, and although he stiffens, he lifts his arm to let me in. He's not a touchy person, but for me, he's letting me close. It's taken time, but he seems to enjoy it. “Spence, don't you like this movie?” I at least want to give him the chance, though I think I know the problem entirely too well. Still, I've kept my voice a whisper, even though the theater is nearly empty other than us.

I hear the quiet, humming whine that he always lets out when he's flustered before he speaks; it's not even a moment long, but just a sign I've noticed with time. “I love it...but I...can't seem to pay attention,” he says, in a rare moment of abruptness. Usually, he'd babble a page-long explanation of the problem. Not tonight.

I pause. I'm right, I know. But I also know he won't approve of what I'd like to do. Instead, though it isn't much to what I'd like to do, it's a lot to him, and I carefully place my hand on his knee. “Want to leave?” I lifted my head and twisted it to speak in to his ear, barely a breath, but I feel his entire body tremble for the words.

I see him debate. Spencer isn't against leaving for the money spent, I know; he's always having to leave things mid-way through, always having to abandon tasks and quit at the worst moment possible.

He's debating because he's nervous.

Not that I'll make him do anything. I won't press him any more than I have; that's something I've always told him. I won't force him in to anything, I won't try to persuade him more than once, and that little breath, the little touch, is my offer. He knows what I'm thinking, and I'm certain I know where his mind is.

But that never promises what we do. Spencer is reserved and hesitant in this, he's a gentleman and he's never been very open with physical contact...until me. He told me that the first time I kissed him and he didn't respond. But I kept trying, when he'd let me, and finally, finally, he kissed me himself, and I'd nearly shouted with joy for the feeling of winning. He was opening up to me. Finally.

But more than that had taken a lot of time and trial; he was nervous and stuttering and wide-eyed, looking like a cornered animal and, despite my promise that I was okay with whatever he wanted or needed—even if that meant he didn't want me that way—it'd taken a few times before he'd truly allowed me to help him.

And I did. It was a long, rainy night when he'd come to me; he'd had a nightmare on his flight home and he'd called when he'd gotten off the jet, had asked to stay with me. It was so rare that I'd agreed even though I wasn't quite awake enough to walk to my door at that point.

He'd nearly broken the door down waiting for me and had wrapped me in a bruising hug, gasping my name, kissing me like he'd seen me die.

I'd talked him off the ledge, but he hadn't been able to sleep. Hadn't wanted to, and...well, the world worked in our favor that night.

But it hasn't since, and I know he's wondering. Thinking.

He's always shy about it, though we've done more than kissing more than once; usually, it's out of stress that pushes us that far, and his long fingers have learned my body better than most people know their own. I've often memorized him, too, each of us pressing until we're too tired to have nightmares.

But never more than that.

And finally, I feel his hand slide over mine, twining with my fingers, lifting it to his mouth, and he presses a kiss to my palm. “We'll watch another night,” he promises, knowing that I chose this for him, and I know that he appreciates it, even if he's been fidgeting all night. Everything done for him he appreciates; I know of nothing that he takes for granted. This, too, he will keep in a permanent slot in his memory for when cases are too dark.

I have my precious memories saved, too, and this is to be one of the best.

He makes sure no one is behind us before we stand; his tall form would block the movie rudely, and I know he'd duck down if he had to, but we're out of the theater and heading for my car, his hand tangled with mine, and I can't help my smile. It's probably stupid, to feel achievement, in finding this with him, in knowing him, in having him trust me this way...but I feel elated to know how much he trusts me.

That maybe, though he might never tell me, he does love me.

I drive to my apartment, this time; I'm too often at his place. Still, I make sure he's okay with it, and I duck out of the car and let us in as he's untangling himself from the passenger seat; his legs are too long for my car. 

We never hurry. Spencer is always rushed and babbling and his mind goes a hundred miles a minute, but when he's with me, alone like this...he seems to slow down. We both have the habit down by now; we each check the rooms and punch in the security code, making sure my windows are locked and nothing has been touched. He meets me in my own room, our shoes and coats left in the living room and I'm lighting candles—he's a romantic, even if nobody might guess it, considering his awkwardness.

I shake the match until the flame is out, dropping it in the little bin by my bed, and I turn and pull him in. He's hesitating again, and I know he'll go back and forth until he can't think on it anymore. So I don't ask him, for a moment; I just pull him in to my room, in to my arms, and the tension falls out of his shoulders when I kiss him.

That's natural, now, for us. I kiss him and he falls in to me and it feels right. His arms circle my waist, and I feel him pull me closer, lifting, just a little; my heels have lifted me more than usual. His timidity is still there, but when he's kissing me, he's confident. His lips taste like the wine I suggested, and his tongue curls around mine with practice; twisting and tangling until I let out a little noise against his mouth.

His lips twitch, and his hands slip a little lower, smoothing over my dress, but not as low as I want them, yet.

“You shouldn't dress like that. Every man in that place was looking at you,” he murmurs against my lips.

I blink, and then grin at him. “You know it's for you, right?” I kiss him again, and when I go to pull away, he follows my head, lengthening the kiss. “Just you.”

He makes a noise, and he kisses me again, falling more comfortably in to my grip, pressing closer, curling his taller body in toward me. “Should've let them know that,” he murmurs.

“I did, considering I didn't notice them,” I breathe, kissing again. This is how I want him. He doesn't show this to his team. Everyone gets jealous, I know; it's human. But I love that he'll admit it to me, that he hated how they were looking at me. How he wants me to be only his. “You know I'm just yours, right? Whatever you might think, you should know that. You're the only one I want.”

Spence isn't always confident. I know he's wondered, more than once, why I stay. But there are a million reasons. A billion. ...Well, he'd say that was impossible, but I'm certain it's true. I've begun to work on that. I think of a reason and I write it down. I'll give it to him, one day.

I know anyone else would joke that I was crazy. But Spence and I see crazy every day. We can't joke about it, when we're wrapped in each other, our eyes meeting, trying to suss out what we are.

I know what I want...but Spence will take time, and that's okay.

So he doesn't say anything, and, instead, he bends his head again, kissing me. We kiss until we're both bordering on breathless, dizzy from the wine and the pleasure, and his hands have dipped lower, and in his comfort and reduced inhibitions, he finally does what I've wanted him to do since he wrapped around me; his hands cup my ass through the dress, and he swallows the noise of pleasure I offer him.

I'm never too loud; I know he wouldn't appreciate it, but I always let him know I enjoy what he does. His lips twitch against me again, and he squeezes, and I oblige; I moan quietly in to his mouth, my hips shifting toward him, and I give a soft whimper and gently bite his lip.

His insecurity will melt the further we go, and I'm glad of it; the moments when Spence isn't thinking too much are the best moments. When he can just feel, not think; when he can enjoy, and not fear or worry.

I'm breathless now, and he reluctantly lets go of my mouth, but I dip my head in to his neck; his skin is perfect and smooth, and I dot little kisses over his neck, breathing his name between some, gasping his name when I feel his hands searching the back of my dress; he's looking for a zipper. “I love your voice,” he mumbles in my ear.

It's a surprising compliment, particularly for someone who does most of the talking between us, but it warms me. I grin against his skin, “Mm. That so?” I feel him nod against my neck, his hands still seeking how to get rid of my dress; I can see the cogs turning, even though I'm not looking at his face. I giggle, “Mm-mm. Gotta pull it over my head, love,” I say, pulling back to grin at him.

His cheeks turn pink, and he almost pouts; it's just that little expression where his eyes narrow, his lower lip slightly further out than the upper, barely noticeable, but it's too cute for me not to kiss it off him. “Want me to strip for you?”

The pink darkens, and he shakes his head, speechless again. I love it. I love when I can fluster him this way, because it's a good thing; it means he's invested, paying attention to me, wanting me.

Finally, his hands slip on to me again, sliding to my hips, and though the dress is form-fitting, it's just loose enough that he manages to pinch the material on both sides, shimmying the edge of the dress up, higher and higher, until it gathers beneath my ass. His eyes have watched the material bunch up as he's pulled it, and his eyes have darkened. I can feel the heat gathering in my belly, and his fingers set free the dress; it's springy enough to cling to me, and his hands slide, slowly, down over my ass. I feel his long fingers curving around my skin, sliding beneath the dress, and his eyes are on me with such intent that I'm sure he's going to wear a hole through me.

Finally, he pushes the dress up, his hands cupping and sliding over me the whole way, until it gathers around my belly. His eyes have followed the dress all the way up, but they're lingering on the lacy garments I'm certain he'll ruin, and then dipping down to the thigh-highs I've pinned with garters.

I wonder if I should remind him to breathe.

But his eyes jump back to mine, pupils blown wide, and he kisses me fiercely, so suddenly that I stumble backward just one little step, but I gasp in to his mouth and push to my toes in my heels, kissing him back equally.

I run out of breath faster, this time, and when I do, I feel his hands already cupping my ribs, sliding the dress up almost agonizingly, as though he knows what he'll find—and he does.

My bra is as lacy and see-through as the matching bottoms—I'd hoped he'd want me the way I want him, and now, I'm glad I went all-out, because he looks greedy and lustful. I love the look on him; he's sweet and kind, all the time, but I love the moments when he can let go of everything but me.

“Raise your arms,” he orders, but his voice is soft and husky—no stutter, but it sounds like he's swallowed a little spoonful of gravel.

I obey him, and the dress disappears; I'm too involved in him, moving in to him, pressing close, pulling on the tie he's tucked in his vest, pulling it free, kissing him while I toss it behind him, hands finding his vest, pulling on that. I don't have to tell him; he lets me pull it over his head between kisses, his hands coming back to my bare belly the moment he can.

His fingers explore the little dips and curves in my skin, tracing my ribs and the edges of my bra as mine free his button-up, our kisses a little messy, my name escaping his mouth now and again. It's a balancing act—letting him do what he wants, but not letting him think too much, and I know I've done it well when he whimpers my name as I pull his shirt out of his pants, pushing at the edges, wanting it off him, “Let me take it off you, love,” I breathe, and he obeys.

It puddles behind him; he doesn't care to pay attention now, and with his arms free, he's reaching for me again, kissing me, his hands slipping up my sides, on to my ribs, and then testing the material of my bra. It's lacy and frilly and I spent good money on it; it's soft, but I know the texture isn't what he wants. I feel him frowning in to the kiss, and his hands are already following the edges of it to the back to take it off me; he's never rushed, but he knows when he wants something off, and I've pushed enough to encourage him.

That's usually what it takes; I have to push until he's past thinking and then he takes over, taking what he wants, but he's never rough. Indeed, my Spence is gentle and loving and I'm never left unfulfilled; I may want more of him, but he's never left me to attend my own ache.

He's already pulling at me, nudging me, turning me until I sit on my bed, bending after me, peppering little kisses across my lips as he gets me the way he wants me; lying on my back, my legs hanging off the bed, and then, his mouth is tasting my skin, skimming down my torso and leaving a little trail as I lose my bra.

His mouth finds me, finally, and I gasp his name as his lips find my nipple, teeth lightly biting, soothed by his tongue, and if I didn't know better, I'd think he practiced.

...No, he probably read three dozen books in a couple of hours about all the ways he could attend my desire, if I know him, and in that line of thought, I'd believe it. Our first time was fumbling and slow and I showed him a lot, but after that, though we never went all the way, he improved vastly on every encounter, even kisses.

The way he's focused on me tonight gives me the idea, too, and I moan his name, clutching his hair; it's long again, and messy, and I'm happy to further ruin it.

Another thing about my Spence is that he doesn't know how much he affects me. He doesn't know how good he is, how every touch curls my toes and makes me crazy for him, and despite my telling moans and squirming, I know, if I let him, he'd spend the night exploring me until he knew every single way to make me react.

But I'm already aching, wanting him, and I give him time, but I always have to direct him just a little; it isn't that he doesn't pay attention, but, instead, that he pays too much.

My hands, at last, leave his head, reaching between us, skimming my nails briefly over his belly, and then I fumble with his belt; the angle is all wrong, but it gets my message across. He steps back, leaning off me, and I sit up, moving a little too fast for him to react; I lay kisses over his abs, fingers working at his belt, then his pants, and those fall, at last. I love the way his muscles jump under my touch, and I press a kiss against his belly just above his underwear, glad I can already see him straining against the white material.

It takes only a breath of debate before I make up my mind; I slide them off, and it sounds like I've punched him when I trace his tip with my tongue. I know he'll be powerless for at least a few moments, so I take advantage; keeping him in my hand, I dip down on to him, taking him in, flattening my tongue to press against the underside of him. In a rare moment, I hear him swear under his breath, his body already shuddering, and I see his fingers itching to take purchase in my hair.

He's never quite gotten over me doing this, despite how often I do; he reacts as though it's new every time, and I love how well he responds to me. He's never loud, never so bad that I have to shush or sooth him, but he's always making noise, and as I bob on him, humming quietly, he gives in. His hands tangle in my hair and pull a little, unable to keep control, but he never hurts me. I hear him growl as his hips buck, not wanting me to pull back, but I give him a little, apologetic kiss as I take a breath. “Come on, love. Get on the bed,” I press, using my hands to pull at his hips.

He has only enough sense to step out of his clothes, and he obeys me dutifully; I follow after him, crawling between his legs, and take him back in, watching him through my lashes. The candles throw shadows, but I can still see the sweat breaking out on his temples, I can see his face scrunching up as he tries to swallow his noises, but I want him to let me know he loves it. I bob on him again, deeper and deeper each time, until my name is a breathless little whimper and I know he's nearly undone.

When he finally breaks, I pull back just enough to take what he offers, pumping him just enough to prolong the pleasure, sucking gently—his eyes roll in to the back of his head and I fear I made him pass out, but I feel his fingers massaging my scalp a moment later.

He can't speak yet—he's still gasping hard, the candlelight throwing his heaving chest in to easy view, so he grasps me tightly, pulling me toward him, and I obey. I know he'll return the favor, and much more, and I know my lacy underwear are already ruined, but he's sure to make sure of that. His hands are already wondering about my thigh-highs; I can see him thinking, and his thumb is feathering at the tiny clips on them, debating.

At last, when he can speak, his dark eyes meet mine. “Those stay on,” he breathes, a half-smirk on his lips.

“You like them?”

“A lot,” he admits, and I kiss him for that. At last, he seems to be breathing easier, and he rolls me on to my back; I let him, though I would happily strip and ride him until we were both senseless, I love it when he takes over. It's so unlike him, in so many ways, yet I know the way he does it is precisely Spence.

He kisses me, for a long time, as though giving him a blow job wouldn't have turned me on enough—I'm sure I'm dripping. I whine his name, and he takes the hint, his fingers wasting time that I don't want him to take; he releases the clips on each thigh-high, and then the underwear, and I lose those, too, greedily kissing him, encouraging him with little moans as his fingers dip between my thighs, testing my reaction.

I want him.

His fingers rub over my underwear, and he growls against my mouth; I really am ready for him, I want him, desperately. He finally shimmies those down over my thigh-highs, not disturbing them, and then climbs back to me, kissing me again, though his fingers have nestled in the little triangle of curls there, dipping lower, and he's swearing.

I love getting him to this point. I love when he can't think rationally, when he wants me, when he wants to drive me as crazy as he feels.

His fingers slip on to my clit, and I know he's done his reading, because he starts gentle; rubbing circles around it, gentle, barely touching, until he adds more pressure, grazing the spot now and then, until there's a fire in my belly and I'm whimpering and squirming beneath him. I'm certain he could drive me to orgasm a hundred times in a row if he was sadistic enough; his touches are perfect and he knows just what to do and just what I love, and I could scream if I didn't know he'd fear for me.

I'm about to break when he stops, and I truly whine his name this time, prying my eyes open, already whimpering, but he shakes his head and kisses me, taking my seeking hands in one of his larger ones. He kisses down my neck, laying affection over my chest, sucking just long enough to make heat jolt to my core, and then further, down until his lips trace the edge of my thigh-highs, and I could cry with want. At last, he frees my hands, and he pushes my legs apart, his mouth finding my center, kissing it, knowing better than to find my clit yet; I'd break the second he did.

Instead, he kisses and licks me gently, casually stretching his tongue in to me, just a little, deeper each time, but it's not quite enough, not after what he did to me with his fingers.

But every little kiss, every little lick is building the flames back up, and I feel I'll burst; I just need a little more, one more little push, and I can breathe again.

Keeping one leg open, carefully, with one arm, I feel his fingers slick themselves in my desire, and then push deep in to me, earning a gasp of his name, and I grip his hair. He's already kissing up to my clit, and finally, I feel him take it in to his mouth, sucking, sweeping his tongue over it, and his fingers have curled in to my sweet spot, and I'm blind, gasping, shouting his name, pressing his perfect mouth on to me, swearing.

He doesn't let go of me, kissing and fingering me until I'm utterly spent, boneless and gasping on my bed, whimpering when he presses too long, “Mm, s-stop,” I beg, gasping. “Too sensitive!”

He releases me in an instant, licking his lips clean, and then his fingers, but he doesn't reach for me yet. “You okay?”

“God, yes, fuck, just...just give me a sec,” I gasp. “Too...much. Just a sec.” I reach for him, though, grabbing his hand and pulling him to me, pulling him close, nuzzling in to him, breathing hard. I'm not sure I've ever had a harder orgasm; and my body is still shuddering from it, shivering.

He gives me time, just as I did him, and at last, when I find my breath, I nuzzle in to his neck, clutching at him. “I didn't think it was actually possible to feel an orgasm this long after,” I murmur, holding on to him.

“Studies have shown women can feel an orgasm up to thirty minutes later,” he quips, as though it's the most natural thing to come to mind, and I begin to grin at him, pulling him in for a kiss. “...What?”

“I love you,” I say, smiling. It's not the first time, and usually, it flusters him. Usually, it's not the thing I should say, because he tends to close himself up on me; he's always been afraid to admit it.

Tonight, he looks at me, and he smooths my sweaty hair away from my ear, and he kisses me in return. “I...I think I love you, too,” he finally manages, a stutter in the words, but I know he means it.

It's my turn to freeze up, and I stare at him, before, despite our position, I tackle him in to the bed, wrapping my arms around him, rolling him on to his back and kissing him fiercely between quiet squeals. “...You love me?”

His cheeks are pink again, but he's grinning at me, looking surprised, but delighted. “Yeah. I...I think so,” he says, and I know it's the best I'll get, at least for a little while.

I kiss him again, and he finally manages to respond, kissing me slowly, until I've melted in to him, his hands rubbing my back and sides, and I'm sighing in his mouth. He reaches up and brushes my hair over one shoulder, pulling it out of my eyes. “You okay?”

“I'm pretty sure this is the best night of my life, actually,” I say, grinning, but I bend my head to kiss him again. “And yeah, I've caught my breath,” I offer, knowing the underlying meaning must be there somewhere.

He grins now, and I love the look; it's something I see so rarely, I memorize it, even in the short moment I have. I feel his hands push gently on my shoulders, questioning, and I nod; he rolls me, this time, settling his weight on me carefully, dipping to kiss me again. His weight sends heat surging back to my core, and I groan in to his kiss, biting on his lip, earning a little noise from him.

Despite the feeling like I'm still high from my orgasm, I want him, and I reach around him, pressing gently in to the base of his spine, urging him to take me; I'm okay, now. He reaches down to nudge gently at one of my legs, and I give him room; he lines himself up, using the remnants of my orgasm to ease himself in to me, and I throw my head back—he's big, bigger than I remember, and he's stretching me slowly, making my toes curl as I gasp his name, clutching his shoulders.

I hear him swearing again, barely making enough noise to hear, but his face is pinched as he pushes in to me all the way. He feels so good, like we're supposed to be tangled together this way, and I kiss him, groaning his name against his lips.

He takes it as permission, and he pulls out, thrusting back in slowly, and it's agonizing, but it feels so good. It's only our second time like this, and it feels like perfection. Every little thrust brings a quiet grunt from his lips and every little noise is turning me on more; the sound of him filling me, our skin meeting, the little sounds coming out of him, and I hook one leg over his hip, digging my heel in to him, moaning his name.

He bucks in to me a little harder, swearing aloud, this time, saying my name, and he shudders against me, thrusting again, his speed picking up, driving me crazy. His rhythm this time is a little less even, every few thrusts sharper than the others, searching for the spot he knows will drive me over the edge, but I'm already at it; still sensitive from my earlier orgasm, turned on by everything he does, I just want him to find his pleasure, too.

My fingers are digging in to his shoulders, every other noise from my lips his name, one hand clutching his shoulders, the other threaded through his hair, dragging him to me for a desperate kiss. “Come on, love...I can't hold out much longer,” I gasp, surprised I can think enough to say it, but I want him to finish.

I feel him shudder against me, his hips bucking and twisting at the same time, and that's the last I can take—it's too much, and I break, my entire body convulsing around him, feeling my insides flutter and then clutch at him. My head falls back and I lose track of him for a moment, overwhelmed unable to breathe, but when I can think again, I feel him rutting in to me messily, I hear him groaning my name—he's at his end, and I feel his heat spurt in to me in little gushes, his eyes rolling in to the back of his head.

He has only enough strength to pull away from me, earning a little whimper, but he kisses me softly in apology before he crashes beside me, curling on to his side and pulling me in to him, out of breath, but holding me close. The panting and gasping, for a time, is all that either of us can manage, but at last, he strokes my hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “You're perfect, you know.”

I blink at him for a moment, not quite sure I heard it right, and then I laugh. “You don't believe in perfection.” It's true; he says there's an exception to every rule, nothing is perfect, everything has some tiny flaw, even if it doesn't seem it. And he's probably right. It's not that he's cynical, but instead, that he's very much a realist. He's down-to-earth, and that's going on my list of reasons I stay with him...when I finally feel like getting up, at least.

“Well, I believe it with you,” he murmurs, and there's a sleepy smile on his face. “There's an exception to everything, after all.”

I pause, and I find myself smiling. “Just one?” I nudge his hair out of his face; he's sweaty, too. “I think there's two, here. You're perfect, Spence.”

He starts to argue, but he sees, after a second, what I'm saying. “...Yeah. You're my exception,” he says, nodding.

I smile, and I kiss him softly, lingering against his mouth. “I love you, Spence.”

He pauses this time, but he kisses me back. “I love you, too,” he says, finally. No pause, no “I think” tacked on, just those words.

I grin. “Thank you,” I say, and I kiss him again, softly, but I sigh, tucking myself in to his chest. “Goodnight, love.”

He mumbles in return, and sleep comes easier than it ever has.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you lot enjoyed that as much as Tumblr has. For now, it's all I have for this fandom, though I have a couple more requests down the line for our favorite, adorable genius.
> 
> I'm always happy to receive constructive criticism, as I believe there's always room for improvement. Even if that just means that you tell me what you most like, it lets me know what I'm doing right, which I think is important.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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